


The Darkness is his Home.

by lightruined



Category: Final Fantasy XIV, final fantasy 14 - Fandom
Genre: Other, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 14:35:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20311114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightruined/pseuds/lightruined
Summary: He waits in the dark for the Warrior, pondering.





	The Darkness is his Home.

Loss. He knows not of what it is like to lose a heart (Love, he does not know); to have it torn from its sheltered cradle in his ribs, betwixt bones and flesh. He knows not of the song of life, to live, _to live_, TO LIVE.

His existence is as dry as the land surrounding Ul’dah; desolate, free from euphoria when famine for the heavens to weep, strikes.

His Hunt is endless.

The Hunt to claim the speck of light, to devour the fullness of LIFE.

What is life? Free from the absence of adoration. There is something dying in him, from the moment he was torn from the womb of love (he was _robbed_. Mothers, he hears how they love. Could he have been something other than this deathless creature, with great desires to mold the clay of weakness into a creature of vengeance? Monsters are creatures, crawling from tragedy).

The throne is cold. The pedestal, such a high and lonely place to be. He is not adored. He will never be adored. For machination of fates has pulled his strings, feet dancing to the sound of manipulation as his claws sharpen, teeth bared.

Holiness. He tastes it, in the iron of crimson in his mouth. He swallows it, like the wine of life.

In the shadows, everything blurs together—edges no longer sharp. here is only the yearning for ruin.

The ruin of the Warrior, ruin of this Star, ruin of his own temple.

The shadows speak of how he is a corpse, rotting and withering. He wears death well (had he not brought the demise of his father?).

Black, the color signifying loss. He is adorned in it, as legs cross. His chin dips gaze never averting from the ceiling to floor, doors. The Warrior—THE WARRIOR WOULD RETURN (for they are his. Their ribs are his to pry open to grasp _his home, his desires_. LET HIM FEEL, LET HIM—LET HIM PLAY HIS PART TO PERFECTION. LET IT ALL END).

“We go together, my dear beast. Together or not at all,” his voice is hardly gentle—he knows not such language. He speaks of the inferno. He speaks of poison. He rasps and rasps of only _his_ want.

Such tenderness pools at the bottom of his stomach, demanding to be felt. It sings—IT SINGS OF PATHS WROUGHT IN GOLD, NOT CARNAGE.

He does not listen. He will never listen. Monsters do not hear. Monsters do not feel (oh, but he does). MONSTERS DO NOT THINK (oh, but intrigue devours and laces the seams of his mind).

Cold amusement blooms like crimson in snow. His laughter is soft.

Eternity, he has eternity for his Hunt.

HE TASTES ENDLESSNESS. IT IS SWEET, the nothingness. He devours it whole.

It is sweet, inevitability. He does not know when the beginning, begins. He does not know where the ending, end.

The Warrior is the end, he knows it. The Warrior is his fate.

He will welcome it, with flesh betwixt teeth and inferno raging in blue, BLUE, _blue_ eyes.

He will wear their hatred like a necklace; all too tight, that chokes.

But first—BUT FIRST, a delicate dance must be had. The final threshold will be crossed in time.

Deceit laces his smile.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a concept I have wanted to explore for a while; an Emperor Zenos. I am hesitant to have it as a verse on my Zenos roleplay platforms thus this fanfiction exists. This is also posted elsewhere.


End file.
